Bits and Pieces
by innercornerhighlight
Summary: A growing compilation of Amian fluff that will hopefully make your insides feel just a little bit gooey. Some AU and OOC-ness. Prompts are very welcome!
1. Pens?

"Amy," Ian Kabra murmured, golden eyes flicking lecherously to the long, cross-country toned legs that peeped out of Amy Cahill's beige tulip skirt as she thumped across the room with the gait of an angry hippopotamus. His eyebrows lifted in mild amusement. She really _was_ graceful.

Naturally, the infuriating woman responded with a shameless roll of those stupidly green eyes, taking her seat and swiveling it contemptuously so she was facing away from him. How rude.

"Oh, come now, we work together for Christ's sake, the least you could do is acknowledge me," Ian teased, lips quirking into a lazy grin as she flashed him her middle finger over her shoulder.

"Charming," he drawled. The broad-shouldered man swung his legs onto his desk, crossing them as he leaned back in his chair to repeat the motion with his arms. "You really are boring me this morning, love."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Amy's tone seeped sarcasm as she placed a hand before her O-shaped lips in a mockery of surprise, "have I neglected my duties to entertain you this morning, my Lord?"

"I quite like it when you call me your 'Lord'," Ian retorted with a playful incline of his head. His shoulders began to shake in silent laughter as Amy shot him a scathing glare that could've sent Columbus' ships whizzing back to Spain.

"You're so annoying," Amy muttered, turning back to her desk only to knock the contents of several pen holders onto the floor. She groaned, dropping reluctantly to her knees to retrieve her assortment of multicolored writing instruments.

With a fond smile, Ian rose from his own seat, kneeling before her to help.

"Clumsy, aren't we?" Ian taunted, absentmindedly dropping markers and pencils in the holders whilst admiring the deep scowl that was currently etched on her disarmingly pretty face.

"Rude, aren't we?" Amy spat, snatching a purple ruler out of his hand, the last of the spillage. She planted herself behind her desk once more in another attempt to complete her tasks for the day, before Ian bothered her again, eliciting a sharp glare and sharper words that only seemed to make him laugh.

And so went an average workday for Ian Kabra and Amy Cahill.


	2. Jealousy

"You look nice," Ian beamed at a surly Amy as she made her way towards him, a vision in white silk. He didn't fail to notice that her fingertips grazed the stem of a nearly-empty flute of champagne, and that a suspiciously misty look graced her delicate features.

"Thanks," she murmured absently, taking a sip of her drink, "not everyone thinks so, apparently".

Ian followed her icy gaze to the back of the room where a tall brunet he recognized as Jake Rosenbloom was entangled with a wispy blonde woman. Furrowing his brow, his eyes shifted back to Amy, analyzing the tightness of her mouth and the cloudy longing in her eyes. He didn't realize that there had been something there. His jaw tensed in what he assumed was jealousy, an emotion he had just learned _wasn't_ mythical.

In an instant, he shrugged off the possessive urge to sock the Rosenbloom bloke in his brutish face, and slipped an arm around Amy's waist.

"We're going to dance," he coolly informed her as she stumbled into his arms and gingerly rested her arms on his shoulders, a suspicious frown germinating on her features. He tugged her closer, cursing as he felt the roundness of her breasts and the curve of her hips against him, causing the blood to inconveniently rush to an area he would've liked left inactive for the time being.

"What are you doing?" Amy demanded as Ian shot a glowering Jake a glare over her head. He could see that she was itching to take a look herself.

"Don't," Ian ordered, fingers gently tilting Amy's face towards his own, "I'm doing you a favor, even though I don't really know what you see in him".

"A favor!" Amy sputtered, eyes flashing dangerously as Ian gave himself an internal kick in the bollocks for his semantic insensitivity.

"Well, I don't want to put you through something this _traumatic_ ," she continued, evidently hurt as her hands dropped from his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, that's not what I meant," Ian offered, clearly surprising her with his sincerity. He felt his pride take a nosedive; he hadn't apologized for anything in years. "I can be stupid sometimes, I say stupid things."

"You are stupid," Amy agreed, playfully serious as she hesitantly wrapped her arms around his neck, "do you think he's noticed, yet?"

Ian unwillingly tore his eyes away from Amy's to play the spy, smirking to see Rosenbloom leaning against the wall by himself, painted an unattractive shade of puce, his arms folded with steam billowing out of his ears.

"I would say so," Ian chuckled, "this is the pettiest I've ever seen you, love, I like it".

"Yeah, well, when in Rome," she sang as he twirled her, admiring the gleam of her hair and the elegant lines of her profile.

"Do you want to make him even more jealous," Ian asked, voice dangerously low, hands dropping to her hips as he traced the curve of her lips with his own.

"Wouldn't hurt," she whispered, meeting his mouth in a searing kiss.

Jake Rosenbloom was forgotten after that.


	3. Edits

Amy fought back a grin as Ian watched her read his politics essay, a stream of amber sweeping across her concentrated features over anxiously tented fingers.

"Ian," Amy began calmly, resting her chin on a fist as Ian leaned forward eagerly, "a watched kettle never boils, let me read this in peace".

"Sorry, I'll stop watching you, love," he sprung out of his seat, pacing the room with an irritating fervency that made her wish he would go back to sitting still and staring.

" _Ian_ ," she offered as a stern warning, parting her lips to ask him to leave.

"It's shit, isn't it?" he declared, throwing his hands in the air "I knew it! I don't have enough sources, the structure is rubbish, and I just ramble on and on about Mill's harm principle-"

"Ian, I haven't even read it yet!"


	4. Dirty Laundry

Ian greatly enjoyed his current living arrangement, even though he had to do the laundry on Sundays.

Waking up in the morning was now something to look forward to because he knew Amy would be nestled under his grey eiderdown duvet. Her slender legs were always entangled with his, while her mass of red gold hair would be fanned across the pillow, dark, sooty lashes casting shadows across her cheeks in the golden glow of the rising sun. He would trace her lightly freckled shoulder blades and smile fondly at how her breathing was always just a _touch_ too fast.

He woke up at a quarter-past-six every morning — _yes_ , even on weekends. After pressing a kiss to Amy's temple, he would bound down the steps of their renovated three bedroom townhouse in Back Bay, Boston to go on a run or make an appearance at the gym.

Upon his return, steam would fog up the glass doors to the ensuite as Ian occupied it for what often bordered on a hour, making use of his carefully selected assortment of grooming products. Shiny hair and flawless skin took work to maintain, after all.

If it was a weekday, he would run gel through his dark locks and choose one of the many silk ties he owned to complement the well-tailored suit he had to don for the office. He would then coax Amy out of bed around eight by nuzzling her neck and running his fingers down her arms, quietly boasting in her ear about his productive morning before she swatted at his face, reluctantly trudging out of bed and slamming the door to the bathroom.

The weekends were a little different though, especially Sundays. After his hour-long shower, he would substitute his signature dark suit for a monogrammed dressing gown, proceeding to tackle the Sunday crossword in the Boston Globe while sipping a cup off Twinings English breakfast. He would put on an old jazz record — Amy adored Coltrane — and wait for sleeping beauty to roll out of bed.

This usually happened sometime between nine and eleven a.m, depending on Amy's workload and how late into the night she had been reading or been kept awake by Ian for _other_ activities. His little bookworm would plop onto his lap and finish the crossword in a matter of minutes with a smugness that Ian would never admit he found absolutely enchanting. She would then begin to make breakfast, and Ian would feel his stomach rumble as the smell of eggs and bacon invited his nostrils to dine.

He took this time to do the laundry.

You see, shortly after they had moved in to their new home, Amy had taken it upon herself to make them a _chore wheel_.

"It'll help up stay organized, and we won't get bored doing the same chores all the time!" she had beamed, holding up the multicolored paper wheel as Ian regarded it with amusement dancing in his amber eyes. How on Earth did this girl's thoughtful, enthusiastic nature manage to extend to matters concerning menial labor?

"Right, or we could just hire a housekeeper," Ian had suggested with a languid smile before receiving a thwack on the shoulder with said wheel, and a glare that could've set off the the second Great Fire of London to boot.

They ended up going with the chore wheel.

While the chore wheel ensured that Ian never got "bored" by surprising him with different tasks every week (sometimes he even got lucky and had to pick out hair from the shower drain!), doing the laundry remained a constant in his schedule, lucky him. Because he couldn't cook to save his life, Amy had accepted the permanent role of chef with her aptitude for googling and following recipes, while he had been demoted to the role of scullery maid.

The first time, it had been with a surly expression on his face and a barrage of British curses being muttered under his breath so Amy knew he wasn't happy about his grimy predicament. He'd been tossing some of his socks in the hamper before he found one of Amy's bras he'd never seen her wear. It had been a shocking red number with plush, plunging cups lined by lace. It looked clean and unused, and to Ian's further bemusement, it was tangled with a matching thong. Ian had eagerly taken both articles downstairs and held them up for her to inspect as she cracked eggs into a bowl.

"Are these yours?" he had demanded with an accusatory raise of his eyebrows, shaking the underwear before her startled expression.

"Yes, they are, but get them out of my face," she had replied with an alluring roll of those jade eyes, flicking the thong away, "I'm trying to cook breakfast, Ian."

"So why haven't I seen you wear these?" he additionally probed, a crease on his smooth brow.

"I didn't know you care about what you have to remove to get me naked," Amy remarked slyly, pouring the egg mixture onto a pan, allowing Ian to admire the way her hips swayed to the soft jazz.

"Well, Lucian red _is_ my favorite color," he drawled, his lips spreading into a lazy grin as Amy discerned a lascivious gleam in his golden eyyes.

"Really?" Amy grinned with uncharacteristic cheekiness, on the tips of her toes so her lips brushed his ears. "I guess we'll have to make sure they're in the hamper next week, then," she whispered, making his blood boil and his mouth go dry, the infuriating woman.

Yeah, Ian definitely didn't mind doing the laundry.


	5. Sick Days

"Can I help you?" Ian remarked, his humiliation flimsily concealed by a feigned layer of icy indifference.

Leaning on the doorframe, Amy regarded him playfully. He was clad in navy blue pajamas and propped up by several plush white pillows in their bed, his hair unintentionally tousled. The mountain of used tissues on their bedside table, along with the redness of his nose and the thickness of his voice, informed her that he was still sick.

His face had fallen the instant Amy took his temperature ("convert that to bloody degrees Celsius, will you, I don't understand your made-up American system!"). After Amy had laughingly declared that she didn't know Kabras could get sick, she insisted he take the day off work, to which he _very_ begrudgingly complied, retiring to bed for a day of hot tea and sulking.

Her lips twitched into a smile as he glared at her, and a string of endearments crept up her throat.

"Feeling better, Mr. Kabra?" she teased, dropping her bag before she leapt onto him, eliciting a series of grunted complaints about "shattered limbs" and "obstructions of convalescence".

"No," he grumbled. His resolve softened, a reluctant tenderness clouding his gaze as Amy pressed kisses up his jawline and across his cheeks, grazing his lower lip ever so slightly.

"It pains me greatly to say this, but I must ask you to refrain from kissing me," Ian sighed with customary theatricality, his sarcasm indiscernible to most (but Amy had resumé-worthy experience with Ian Kabra's peculiarly subtle sense of humor).

"Oh?" Amy quirked a brow and emitted an exaggerated gasp, "you must be doing worse than I thought, if you have to ask me not to kiss you!"

"Yes, my nose hasn't stopped _leaking_ ; I might even have to miss a second day of work," Ian shuddered in horror that was only half-sarcastic.

Amy bit back a giggle. She could practically see the little robots that lived in Ian's head beeping about in confusion at the lack of boring tasks to complete.

"That sounds very serious," she murmured, drawing her eyebrows together as he grazed her cheek with with the back of his fingers. "Maybe a kiss would make you feel better?"

"Very well," Ian accepted, sternness betrayed by the lazy grin he wore, "but just one."

Amy fastened her legs around his hips, arms familiarly falling into place over his shoulders as his hands tightened around her waist. Her lips met his, and moments passed before her tongue decided to make an acquaintance of his as well.

(It ended up being more than one kiss.)

(Amy got mono two days later.)


End file.
